A Child's Laugh
by NellieLovet
Summary: His world was falling apart. Something was missing and John couldn't see what. If he wanted to go on with his life, he would need answers. But... where were they?
1. I

Hello everybody :) I must say, this is my first fanfic EVER in english, so, please, feel free to correct me, point me any incongruence etc., because I'd love to get this well done.

This is also my first fic about Sherlock Holmes, ^^ I hope you like it as much as I do.

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><p><strong>A Child's Laugh<strong>

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><p><strong><span>I<span>**

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><p>It was a dark day for the inhabitants of 221B of Baker Street. A week have passed since their friend had died next to St. Bart's. Suicide, the newspapers would say. But no. No, they knew there was something more, something dreadful which made Sherlock Holmes jump from the roof of a hospital. They didn't know what, yet. They have no clue, but it must had been serious enough to make him take his own life away.<p>

"The only one that mattered..." John muttered, sitting in the armchair in front of Sherlock's old one.

"What, dear? Are you thinking about him again?"

Mrs Hudson, who _wasn't_ their housekeeper, was now acting like one. She felt it just as much as John did; the absence of the consulting detective. She loved him like a son, couldn't help being like a mother for the men who were living above her. Now that Sherlock was gone the flat remained still, quiet. He used to fill their lives with shoots to the wall, beautiful violin solos and cases. All those were gone but the boring silence Sherlock used to complain about had remained in every inch of the flat.

"Yeah... can't get it out my mind. Thank you, Mrs Hudson" he took the tea she was offering him.

"You're welcome, dear. But remember -"

" - you're not our housekeeper. We know" he stopped. There wasn't a _we_ anymore.

"Oh... Mr. Watson."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Come on, dear, it's normal to be sad. When my husband died -"

"He was executed, madam" he gave her a look.

"Yes, yes, he was! But listen to me. Did he or did he not commit that crime... I missed him, so much! And I miss him everyday since then, but we have to move on, dear!" Mrs Hudson rubbed her hand against John's shoulder, trying to comfort him. "You can't sit there every hour of everyday thinking about what you could have done. You need to rest. You need to be taken care of..."

"I don't need anybody!" he yelled suddenly. "... Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I don't know... I..." he sighed, frustrated.

"It's alright, dear. It's the pain talking for you. I'll let you rest now. I'll be back in an hour, see if you need anything."

"See you later..." he whispered, looking back to the chair.

_"This phone call it's ah... it's my note. Is what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

Sherlock was telling him he was going to jump. John couldn't believe it, still couldn't. He felt that... guilt in his chest, pounding, demanding to _do_ something about it, to make that horrible fact a lie, a mistake. Maybe Sherlock had changed the body, maybe he gave him drugs again to prove a theory. _Something_.

But he couldn't, could he? He had visited the graveyard everyday since what he considered Sherlock Holmes' murder and not suicide, hoping that the exact spot where he had been buried wasn't there, along with his body. But it was. It always was. That dream never came true.

"Why, Sherlock? What was - what made you - Moriarty? Did he make you jump? No... you wouldn't. I'm missing something. I know I'm missing it... You were right, you know? I see, but I don't _observe_." He couldn't go on talking out loud, his voice was cracking like a heated iceberg.

But observe what? Definitively, it was all Mycroft's fault. If he had protected HIS brother... He had power, for God's sake! He was the Britain Government, his name _literally _opens doors, why couldn't he do something about it? He told Moriarty all Sherlock's life in exchange for just a little bit of useless information, probably faked. He could have told Moriarty a lie, then arrest him and executed him. What kind of government was that if he couldn't preserve its citizens life?

He stood up and looked to Sherlock's armchair.

"I don't know if you are... dead or alive, but... I'll try to understand why" trying not to cry, John Watson left the room. He was determined to solve Sherlock Holmes' last case; his murder.

Walking slowly through the street, John Watson could see the leaves falling, covering the street the roads with their autumn blanket. It was October. People passed by, hurrying up to get the bus or the train they were about to miss. 'Time changes everything', had said Mrs Hudson one day, but for John, no one seemed to care about his friend's death. Routine never changes, so they say, but the greatest mind in the world have died a month earlier. Wasn't that enough to change it? A bit?

John knew he needed to cop, maybe he should just forget about everything, as everybody said, go on with his life like nothing had happened. But it did! Could nobody understand that?

John felt rage, the one who didn't understand anything was him. He felt as if someone had cut his heart in two pieces and took one of them far far away. Now he was so lonely... If he wanted to overcame it, well, he knew he would need answers.

Suddenly, it hit him. Those kids. Those who were kidnapped. A proper research was demanded. _If you want to discover the truth, you'll have to start from that point_, he said to himself.

He could have asked Molly if she knew something, though she wasn't who took care of Sherlock's body, but her new assistant. He didn't remember her name, but she had made a strong impression on him. Ginger, quite tall... She had entered while Molly cleaned the wound of his head. The girl rushed, not wanted to be interrupted. She described the injuries of the corpse: the skull, broken; the lungs, destroyed, and his brain... well. There was no need to remember that.

Molly had started to cry. Her assistant was talking about Sherlock's corpse, after all.

Since then, Molly had changed. Get her hair cut, a new style... and though her personality was the same, this was a brand new darker Molly. And she didn't want to talk about 'the fake genius'.

His eyes fixed a strange couple staying near of the police station. They weren't talking, looking around while eating ice cream. The boy, taller than the girl, was covering his face with sunglasses and a hat. He could not see the girl's face, but the redhead looked suspicious too.

It come from nowhere, a brilliant idea which popped into his head and John forgot about the couple. _He could use Sherlock's homeless network!_

He took a deep breath. He was calm, his hands weren't shaking. He was just fine.

The New Scotland Yard in front of him, waiting, boiling inside the walls. New cases, new lost people, new faces. Sure there was something for Sherlock Holmes inside there... the problem was that there wasn't any Sherlock Holmes to take the hard cases.

John Watson stepped inside the building, observing everything, at least pretending to. What was he doing there? What did he expect? That he would just enter, say Sherlock was alive and intend to open a investigation about it? Was he mad? Maybe. But it couldn't just pass, as if Sherlock had never existed. He was real. He wasn't a fake. His memory should be restored, his name cleaned. If Sherlock was alive... then John would have a little _chat _with him. But, if he was dead, then... his best friend would be able to go on with his life. For the most part, he hoped.

"Lestrade" he said, stepping into his office. "I think we need to talk."

"John! It's been a month since -"

"I know. We need to talk. Now."

"Is everything alright?"

"No, it isn't."

"Take a sit, please. Guys, get out" said Lestrade to a pair of cops that were standing in his office at the moment John had entered. Slowly, Lestrade sat down in front of John, waiting.

"It's about Sherlock" John said.

"Oh, come on, John, not again!"

"But he _has _to be alive! This just doesn't make any sense! Don't you see it?"

"He is _DEAD_, Watson! Face it!"

"This is not about he is or he isn't, Greg!" John was getting angry about everyone, all his friends, saying the same over and over again. "This is about Moriarty AND Sherlock. Something is wrong, Lestrade. I-I don't think this is over."

"Moriarty is dead, to" Lestrade sighed.

"I know, but... we still don't know why the kid screamed... do we?"

"Sherlock... he was a -"

"Don't. You. Dare. To say that, never again. You know, I KNOW YOU KNOW THAT IS A LIE!" he was so angry he had just stood, punching the desk.

"John, please, calm down."

"No, NO, I CAN'T. MY FRIEND, _OUR _FRIEND IS DEAD BECAUSE SOME IDIOT'S FAULT. See" he took a deep breath. "If you don't help me, I'll do it by myself."

"_Fine_" Lestrade wanted to believe, he truly wanted. "I'll give you whatever you need to carry on this... case of yours, but you'll be on your own. Any risks you may find..."

"I don't need anyone."

"Sure" Donovan walked in with a bunch of folders, "the light of the freak will guide you."

"Shut up, bitch" John replied with rage.


	2. II

New chapter up :D I think I am really bad at this xD You tell.

Enjoy :D

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><p><strong>II<strong>

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><p>The door was knocked. Yawning, Dr Watson went downstairs. It was too early in the morning, barely six o'clock, who was the insane waking up people? A woman, she was. A quite tall ginger was knocking at their door at six o'clock early in the morning.<p>

"John?" she greeted.

"Who are you?" he yawned again.

"Eleanor Gates, sir" the young girl, with a little naive smile.

"Oh...yes, you... you are Molly's assistant, aren't you?"

"Sorry, have we met?"

"I'm afraid so" he sighed. "A month ago... you were the one who was talking about the corpse of my dead friend (and Molly's friend to) in front of us while Molly cured the bound in my head."

"Yes! You were the one that... Oh, I'm sorry. In that moment I didn't know you were Sherlock Holmes' friend..."

"What do you want?" John was getting tired of everyone feeling sorry for his lost.

"Uh, yes, of course" she took a note from her chest-crossed purse. "This, is from Sherlock."

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, totally awaken. "Is... is he alive?"

"I'm sorry, no" she looked quite sad, in fact. Did she knew him? "But... we where kind of... I'm mean... we had a deal."

"A deal?"

"Yes... You see, I was a huge fan and I asked in his blog (you can search, if you don't believe me) if he could gave me some of his... items. I don't know how to explain, because, you see, I'm not from this country."

"I understand. Take your time"

Finally a lead! It had arrived at his door, by its one feet! He could wait a few minutes more. The girl, _Eleanor_, he remembered, was having trouble to explain herself, so he let her in and made some tea. Suddenly, he felt like Sherlock Holmes, watching, trying to _observe _every detail from the woman.. Her clothes, which didn't match with each other, and her rare moves, were worth seeing. She was a foreigner, obviously.

"I got it" she exclaimed cheerfully. "Mr Holmes and I had an arrangement. I asked him to give me some of his stuff so I could learn how did he do the things he did. So, our deal was that the day he died, I could take whatever I wanted. Of course, we didn't expect it to be so... soon. As you know, he arrived alive to the hospital. He asked for paper and a pencil, and he wrote this, for you. The note."

For the first time in two years his hand was shacking again. The paper had Sherlock's calligraphy, it had been written by him, no doubt.

"I don't know if I can trust you but... take whatever you want" John lead her upstairs. The apartment hadn't change since the day his friend departed. His books, his notes, his files, his chemistry stuff... it was all as he had left them, in the same position. John didn't even let Mrs Hudson clean them. "Would you mind If I... ah... read this later?"

"Is yours" she said. "Don't worry, I don't need much... When he proposed me that... then I thought it was a joke, never thought really..."

"Eleanor!" Mrs Hudson appeared, very surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Mother" Eleanor smiled.

"Mother? Have I missed something?" John, confused, asked. Mrs Hudson laughed.

"Couple of years ago I met this skinny little girl as I was walking by Oxford Street. She was lost, so I helped her..."

"... and I invited Mrs Hudson to a coffee" completed Eleanor.

"We happened to be friends at once, and every now and then since that day she pays me a visit. Time has made us to be like a mother and daughter, though we are not" Mrs Hudson finished, laughing and hugging her not-daughter. "But, what are you doing here, darling?"

"I didn't know you were living here, ma'am!" she exclaimed. "I'm so _so _sorry for your lose!"

"Oh... don't be, my dear. He's now in a better place."

"I hope so."

John felt disconnected from the conversation, so he went to his room and closed the door.

The note was held by his shaking hands, making it difficult to read. The ink was irregularly printed in the surface, written by a hand whose body was going to dead. John couldn't stand that thought. It was tough to know that his beloved friend wrote that little piece of paper a month before he could even read it. The clues of what really happened were few, and now that he had one, a real one...

"John" Mrs Hudson called, knocking at the door. "Are you alright, dear?"

"Yes... yes, Mrs Hudson" he replied, staring closely the paper in his hands, unable to open it.

"Well, come out" said Eleanor, opening the door without asking permission. "Let's have some coffee" she smiled in that way that John hated so much. "There's no need to talk about this... thing, we can leave it for later. If I had known that you were..."

"SHUT UP" he yelled. "I don't want to hear more of this nonsense. I don't know who are you, if you are truly who you say you are, and I am certainly not going anywhere with you. Now GET OUT of my room."

"Here, dear" said Mrs Hudson, taking Eleanor by the arms. "Leave him alone, we'll have that coffee, right?"

"You're a jerk" spat Eleanor to John before leaving.

"Yes, I am" he replied, though they were gone long ago.

Gregory Lestrade was a man of traditions. He knew what to do in every situation he could know, wherever he was. That was something that, he couldn't deny, was improved by Sherlock Holmes' activities. They were friends too, after all. Now that everything had changed, a new order was demanded in his method. The city had new criminals, people ready to kill anybody any second of any day. It seemed that now the detective was gone, all the thieves and killers had agreed to do misdeeds.

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

"Who is it?" he yawned. It was barely three o'clock in the morning.

"John talking" was the reply. "I think I have... something, a clue about Sherlock."

"Are you O.K.? You're voice is like... trembling?"

"Yes, yes. My hand is shaking. Listen, I have this note from that Eleanor girl, Sherlock wrote it. I think it is important."

"John, in the morning. And go to the therapist" Lestrade yawned again.

"I don't need a therapist!"

"If you don't go to, I won't help you. Now let us sleep."

John ended the call. Lestrade was worried about him, he could tell, but there was no need to be such an... ass.

"Well, you were an ass to Eleanor" suddenly, the voice of a ghost filled the room, sending shivers to his spine.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

"Go back to sleep, John. You're hurting yourself."

"Ri... Right."

"And you're seeing a ghost. You better go to that therapist."

"I'll go" was the answer as he opened the bed.

"I hope you sleep well" were the last words of his hallucination.

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><p>Reviews are love :3<p> 


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